Influx
by Chevira Lowe
Summary: Because Cloud is searching for a light that he cannot have, and we all know Riku isn't afraid of the darkness (shounen ai, hints of unrequited Riku>Sora)


Influx

Summary: Because Cloud is searching for a light that he cannot have, and we all know Riku isn't afraid of the darkness…

Warnings: Hinted and unrequited RikuSora. 

Author's Notes: Flame if you must, but know it does nothing but make me laugh. To quote Ansem, 'I am the Seeker of Darkness', and I fear no slights, verbal or otherwise. 

Spoilers: This story takes place around and beyond the defeat of Cerberus. If you have not gotten that far, consider yourself warned. 

*

I'm forgetting myself, sometimes. Each day I take another step, and leave more of what I once held behind me, a tiny bird, flapping its wings against the futility of it all. 

Holding her in my arms was the last time that I was truly happy. But she was torn from me, violently and without warning. And every action requires a reaction. Every cause an effect. I had my reaction at hand, and I plunged heedlessly forwards, flinging every ounce of strength I had in a blind and helpless inanition, the last of a wave of fury and rage, the last of what I thought I could offer, for _my_ cause, for my love. For _her. _

And when at last I could fight the darkness no longer, and I, weakened and feckless, succumbed to that which she forced me to swear against, and found myself a pawn, a puppet, of something much greater than myself, I was grieved beyond even my own comprehension. Grieved not for myself, for I deserve nothing more than what I have chosen, but instead, for the thought, the vague conception of utter…wrongness, I suppose, might be an appropriate word. I had given up, and she had told me to _never _give up, no matter how bleak the prospect, the supposed outcome. 

But she was gone. Lost to me as completely as if drowned at sea, as if murdered before my eyes, and I, powerless to prevent it. But what I wouldn't give to hold her in my arms a final time, to whisper unto her endless flatteries and assuage all her fears, remind her that we are eternal, and that nothing could ever bring distance between us. 

Nothing but the darkness. 

Nothing but the darkness she so opposed. 

Would she hate me, now, I wonder? Would she think of me as an accoutrement of war, of hatred, of darkness? Would she pound her fists against my chest and weep bittersweet tears of helplessness? 

Or would she hold a delicate finger to my lips, and quiet me, and kiss away _my _fears? Admittedly, I never had many of those impediments. My sole and greatest inhibition in this life was losing her, and already that has come to pass. There is nothing left now, but regret, but pain, but this antagonistic and repeated beating of a heart that should have ceased to beat long ago. Am I but a shell, a creature of the night, a wisp of smoke lost forever upon the gentle cadence of an unremitting wind, or is my path still beneath my feet, sinuous, treacherous, but purposeful?

Or perhaps I am no longer alive, and this is my eternal purgatory. To live without her, surely there is no greater punishment. And so I hide my tears when they threaten, and steady my voice when it breaks. And I fight, because I must, because if I am strong enough for the both of us, she might just come back to me, one of these days. 

And then, Hades promised to help. I was greedy, and I was eager, and I while I was no virginal novice to the evils of the world, I accepted his offer, his _contract, _forever binding me to him. He chose me because of my strength, my will to live, not for myself, but for _her, _and he fed off of that desire. He told me he would help me find her. And who was I to doubt him, master of the underworld? Surely, surely if I could not find her, then he could. He who is lord over life and death was the one person that might grant my wish, and if I must, I would sell my soul to accomplish my end. 

_Kill Hercules, _said he. _Kill Hercules, and I'll help you find what you're searching for. _

My signature, as I remember it, was inked in blood. 

And then he changed my contract as the 'battle' approached. He inducted a new rule, a new law, a new competitor. 

_Kill the boy who bears the key. _

My focus faltered, my concentration shattered, I had nodded, deafened to the horrible gratings of his voice against my mind. Never a peaceful realm, I could scarce bear more pain than what was already set against me. 

And I agreed because I knew the boy who bore the key. I knew him from breathless tales and flights of fancy of another, a boy that reminded me very much like myself, at that young and tender age. He spoke with acidulous hatred of that which had torn them apart, and with hope for finding him again. If I didn't know better, and he wouldn't have denied it, I might go so far as to say this passes beyond sibling-like rivalry-ship and love. 

He had sought me not because he had any great desire to do so, nor because he was particularly fond of me. We had met only once before, I; waiting for Hades, he for Maleficent, and somehow, a conversation had been sparked between us. I am not quite sure how it began, as I am a solitary person by nature, and I bend to the will of no one but myself, and he is much the same. He is proud and unrelenting, with eyes of coldest blue, a blue that might remind me of an ocean, near a beach, in a time so very far away, were I one for poetical musings. 

And then, later that day, he had returned, tight-lipped and pale. He found me again through some mutual pain that we seemed to share and sat behind me, so that we were back-to-back. He leaned against me, and even through my cloak and heavy shirt, I could feel the _coldness _emanating from him. 

And when he spoke again, his voice was full of malice. "She thinks he betrayed me." 

I wrapped my arms around my folded knees and hunched forwards, forehead resting on my forearms. I did not goad him onwards, nor did I sense the need to. 

"She says—" he bit off his next words with a strangled choke. He wasn't shaking, he wasn't crying, he simply _was. _Trying to contain his feelings, trying to be a man. I admired him, in that moment, but the sensation was small, and faded quickly, awash in an alien pity that I did not know the origin of. Maybe it was from my connection with her, for she, surely, would have had boundless compassion for him. 

"She says he's forgotten about me." His voice, once so proud and bold, came as little more than a whisper, now, a pathetic warble that befitted him not at all. 

"Oh?" I said no more than what the situation demanded. Enough to keep him talking, enough to keep his company. I desire isolation, yes, but _she_ would have wanted this. 

"I can't believe it," I felt his back stiffen against mine, and caught the slightest tremor as it passed through him. "I don't believe it. He would _never—"_

The words 'You never know anyone as you know yourself,' manifested and died on my tongue, the taste bitter and foul in my mouth even as I held them back. He would need consolation, not cynicism, and while I was far better at the latter than at the former, there was no call for such a talent. 

"Who is he?" I turned my head so as to catch any movements from the corner of my eye. He looked up, suddenly, silver hair stirring gently with the abruptness of the movement. 

"He's…a friend."

"Oh."

"A good friend. The best. I've known him forever. And there's no _way _he would have—"

I shifted, uncomfortable, and mustered a response, devoid though it was of emotional vigor. "Would have what?"

"Maleficent says that he betrayed me. She says that he's gotten a fancy new weapon and he's using it. To look for _Kairi. _She says that he's either forgotten about, or ignoring me, and that he hasn't made a single effort to _find_ me. Not that he could, either way, he'd trip over his own feet before he could do what I've done."

_And what have you done, boy? What *have* you done? _

"Kairi?"

"She's…a _friend_ of ours." He said finally, after a seemingly monumental pause. I caught the slight deviation in the word 'friend', and decided I would rather not comment. He seemed to me to be an emotional dam, and the slightest misstep would shatter all his defenses, leaving him open and naked to the cruelties of the world. 

And I would not inflict those cruelties upon one so young. Not I, who suffered so much more at so young an age. It was not quite a level I could yet deign to, though, assuredly, I am lowering myself ever closer to even thatthreshold, the further I lean into the darkness.

"Ah. I see."

He stood, then, and fell to pacing, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "No you don't. You're just—" he turned, then, and tilted his chin, facing me. "Who _are _you, anyways? You're not one of _them," _he jerked his head in the general direction of the Council Halls. 

"I am no one of circumstance."

He quirked an eyebrow at that, and then smirked slightly, something that brought his features unexpectedly to life. Where once he had appeared lifeless and cold, now he seemed ablaze with power, both untapped and unconscious. "No one of circumstance." He repeated poignantly, his words mocking. "Of course, _Cloud. _You're Hades' pet, aren't you?"

I might have flinched, but thankfully, I pride myself on more self-control than most. As it was, I simply looked away, moving my somewhat stiff neck back to a more appeasing position. "Perhaps." I stood, then, plying my height against his own. I would give him credit, though; the difference did not daunt him as it might have. "But if you knew, why did you ask?"

He shrugged, easing his shoulders in a circular motion, as though had he turned the shrug into a flexing of muscle. "Habit." His eyebrow rose again, and he gestured dismissively with his right hand, turning his head to the opposite side. "I'm Riku."

Ah, yes, of course. Maleficent's toy soldier. He who would be the first casualty in this war of worlds, because surely her plans for him were rather like Hades' for me. A pawn, nothing more, to be used and discarded as though worthless. _Pawn four to Black Queen. _

I made a soft noise, almost a 'Ha', but left it at that. He did not speak again, and after a few more minutes of pacing and fist-clenching, he left. I did not know where to, nor did I care; all that mattered at this moment was my sanctuary, my thoughts. The Hollow Bastion, while once a glorious palace, was now a mountainous ruin, befitting the sinister residents. The room I was in, while labeled a dungeon, shows no, or at least very little, signs of use. And perhaps, under the former occupants, it saw no dreary days, no iron fetters, no blood. Perhaps it had a more innocent use. 

Perhaps. 

Though I had been sitting before on the floor, I moved instead to a plain wooden stool. I had brought it down a day prior to this meeting, and saw reason to use it now. I pushed it against the wall, which I then used as a backrest of the most uncomfortable sort, though it suited my purpose. 

My fingers sought, under my cloak, an item that had endured even through the destruction of my world, and it might have brought a smile to my lips, once. But only in her hands. I was never one for music, but she—she had always loved the sweet, melodious tunes of the oboe. My personal opinion was far less benevolent, as I found the high-pitched noise rather irritating, but even that discomfort could fade away when she played. 

I had offered, several times, to make her a new one, something fancy, something that might boast my skills, and augment her own, but she refused, wanting to instead keep this one of plainest reed. Battered and scarred with the show of much use, but polished now, by continual contact with human hands. 

Experimentally, I lifted it to my lips, and played a sour note. It would have made her laugh, to see me try, but she wasn't here to laugh, to tell me that it was futile, and that I should leave the music to her. Or maybe she would have smiled, and moved to my side, and corrected my fingers, and the nearness of her body would have been too intoxicating to even attempt any further musical endeavors, regardless, and I would have kissed her, hard, and she would have responded, tilting her chin upwards and standing on her tip-toes so as to equalize our height. 

I broke my train of thought abruptly, lest I find myself needing an appointment with a bucket of cold water, and twirled the oboe between my fingers, once, before stowing it away again. However briefly, my thoughts had alighted on the notion of breaking it, but I chided myself for so eclectic a thought. She would want it back, if ever I were to find her again, and I would not deny her so simple a request. 

And then, time accelerated, two days henceforth, and I was off to fight Hercules, and, though I did not yet know it, the young boy, Sora. I made it to the Coliseum, and was easily admitted, though with no heroic intentions. Hades manipulated me, and I allowed it. And so I fought the child. 

He was good. I was better. He was on his knees before me, helpless, weaponless, blue eyes pleading wordlessly for life. Not his life, no, but the lives of his two idiotic companions. He could have cared less about himself. 

I swung. And somewhere, out of the dredges of the darkness that had enveloped me of late, a conscience sprung to my shoulder, and deflected the blade. The boy looked up, and his eyes widened in terror. It took me but a moment to realize that this terror wasn't for the fact that I was still standing before him, but rather for what was behind me. 

Cerberus. The guardian of the underworld, even as Hades was his master. For a moment, frozen in time, my mind cried foul dealings and treachery, and a snide little alter-conscience informed me that it was no treachery but my own that had brought this fate upon my shoulders. I would have flung myself at the beast with suicidal intentions, had it not knocked my sword from my hand, and consciousness from my body. 

The next thing I remember, I was lying flat on my back, and I felt sand shift beneath me. In a moment of languid reminiscence, I thought that perhaps I was back home, with her, and we were on the beaches once more. But it faded when the face of Hercules came into my peripheral vision. 

"—o okay?"

I frowned slightly, and sat up. "Wha—" but I was unable to further make my thoughts known. Pain, sudden and unexpected, lanced through my torso, and the demi-god swore, flattening me back to the sands with a powerful hand. 

"Don't move," he cautioned. "You got yourself whacked."

Absurd, I mused, how absurd. 

"Here," he dug a hand into the Coliseum sand to steady himself and leaned over me, momentarily blocking out the sun. "You broke a couple ribs, I think," he said after prodding at me tentatively for a few heartbeats. "And you've got this nasty gash right—here." He poked the aforementioned place almost viciously, and I flinched. 

He laughed, then, and rocked back on his heels, rubbing a hand across the back of his head. "Eh, sorry, I don't know my own strength—" 

On that I would stake my life. 

And then, on impulse, I spoke again, voice soft and low, so much so that even the great son of Zeus had to strain to hear. "I was sent here to kill you, you know."

His eyes widened, and a sense of sadistic triumph was allowed to flare to life before I quashed it. "Oh yeah?" He said finally, tone almost archly light. "Well, you're in no condition to kill a fly, right now, so it looks like I've got nothing to worry about."

I sighed at his childish logic, flexing my wrist to assure myself of the presence of the stiletto there. Sure enough, the familiar pressure was at hand, and I debated with myself on whether or not I should lunge forwards and drive it through his breast, just so I could remind him not to underestimate anyone, but more urgent things caught my attention.

"Where is the boy?"

Hercules rubbed the back of his neck; a gesture I came to realize was born of nervousness. "Ah—hah, you see, funny story, that. You were rather unconscious, and I was all backed against a wall, and he—came back in and distracted Cerberus, so I pounced on the opportunity and got you out of there." 

_And I, who was trying to kill him. _

"He's a child." I said, semi-accusingly. "And _you _are a god. Shouldn't you be _helping _him?"

He shrugged uneasily, now playing with a lock of his golden hair. "Demi-god, actually, as in, 'not wholly a god'. And the kids' strong, I'm sure he can handle Cerberus." 

False words for falser hopes. The boy was going to die. Aggravated, I pushed aside the 'demi-god's' hand and eased myself into a sitting position, feeling the sharp and unrelenting ache of the aforementioned broken ribs. 

"Waitaminute!" Hercules blurted suddenly. "And just where do you think _you _are going?"

"You won't help. And I, who led the lamb to slaughter, won't abandon it fully."

He blinked, digesting my enigmatic words. I left him to decipher what it meant, and half-limped in the direction of the large doors of the Coliseum. 

"Whoa, buddy!" He called, appearing with all his godly suddenness in front of me. "If you go back in there, you'll die."

"I am well aware of that."

He frowned, setting a hand on my shoulder. The contact was heavy, and stirred bruises both new and old. "The kid came back. He has pride. If you interfere, and he survives because of it, you'll damage that pride. Let the kid fight. He almost beat you anyways, didn't he?"

I leveled a glare, the sincerity of which was so hotly salient that he was sure to feel it. "The keyword _there _being 'almost'. I could have killed him."

"Could have, but didn't. And then you were used as a chew toy by the undead dog of Hades. How fun."

My fingers unconsciously sought the wound he had indicated in my side, and came away awash with a substance far more familiar than tears; blood. 

"He could die."

"So could we all, at any given moment. Give the kid a chance, eh?" He clapped his hand, harder this time, against my arm, jarring both body and ribs. I was almost literally tossed aside, and regained my balance only through a quick sleight of hand, which allowed me to grasp his wrist and pull myself upright before I fell down. 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he mumbled, nearly incoherent. "Here, let me see your battle-wounds."

I let him prod me further, as I ticked the minutes away in my head. What had it been, now, ten, twenty? Was he already dead? Was the boy, Riku's childhood compatriot and dearest friend dead? Was it my fault?

I'm not quite sure where, but Hercules conjured bandages of an unknown origin, and pried me out of my shirt long enough to brace my damaged ribs. Already, the purpling of abused flesh shone bright and stark against skin that has not seen sunlight since those carefree days at the beach with my beloved. The demi-god, silenced by the play of words set against him, was adroit in this repairing of mortal flesh, and did not comment on the scarring on my back. I smiled a most bitter smile at that, for what could I have said, if he dared ask?

Nothing. I could not even have found words to explain it to her whom I loved, though she might have understood. 

He finished just as the ground quaked beneath our feet, and the final victor of the battle was made known. 

So this was the boy, the keymaster, the wielder of all the childish affections of the child Riku. This was the boy who would open the door. And he was paramount over a creature that I, at my best, surely could not handle with ease. 

He returned, then, wearied but exuberant. Words were exchanged, and he left with a smile. I cannot say that I left with the same, for my next destination was far from giving me cause _to_ smile. 

I stopped first in the underworld. Passage was granted easily enough, as Charon, the Ferrymaster, was absent, and there was no Cerberus to guard the gates. I spoke with the two minions of Hades, Panic and Strife, and learned nothing from them, except that the whereabouts of their master were unknown to them. Disgusted with their incompetence, I left. 

Returning to the Hollow Bastion, though, that was far more difficult. Did I toil for days, weeks, before I returned to that hell-spawned place? Or was it but a single, crystalline moment, frozen and shattered in eternity? I had no vessel to take me, and nothing but the sheer power of will to guide me. 

Riku was the first living soul I saw, however, and our third meeting was far more emotional than the first two. He was evidently angry, and the muted flashes of pure rage, despair, and hatred alternately fuelling his intense gave were not lost upon me. 

"You!" He hissed, voice an octave lower than what I remembered it as being. He brought his fist up, perhaps as though to strike me. "You _knew!" _

"Knew what?" I managed mildly, neither dodging nor feigning the need to. If he wished to hit me, I was beyond caring. Weary and in the pain my journey had wrought, and with but a single purpose in mind, I had no wish to tarry with children and fools. 

"You knew she was right, you knew she wasn't lying. You knew all along, and you didn't tell me." 

Inwardly, I sighed at his naïvety, his wanting to blame something, someone else for that which had befallen him. He was shaking this time, unable to restrain his emotions as he had previously. "I knew nothing of your affairs but what I learned from you."

He stopped, then; utterly, neither moving nor looking like he was able to, pursing his lips at me as though debating what next he would say. Apparently, the moment of inspiration had faded behind him, for his expression slackened, and his eyes grew cold once more. 

"He didn't even fight for me." He said softly, looking down, now, as though perhaps the ground could claim him forever to the enfolding, maternal embrace of the earth. "He didn't even _fight." _A tremulous shudder drew his arms across his chest, where he held them as though to warm himself. "And he—he was happy…he was happy without me, even without Kairi. He was _laughing, _with them…" I had not figured him for one to cry out his problems on the shoulder of another, so why, then, did he deem it necessary to do so now? Maybe he, like me, was lost and searching for a light that he could not find. 

"And did he laugh with you?"

He rolled his shoulders uneasily. "Yeah." 

"Did you give him a chance to fight for you?"

"Yes." He said sharply, glancing back to me intensely. "Of course I did." 

"Ah…" I said softly, folding my left arm under my right, holding my side and ribs as though to ease the pain. "So you feel he has betrayed you."

"I don't 'feel'. I know. He's gone and turned himself into a—"

"A hero?" I'm not sure why I said it, not entirely. It was nothing more than a moment of 'speak before you think', and I regretted it, though he did not react. 

"He is nothing." Riku said then, coldly, finding focus once more on the ground. "He is weak. I was always better."

"Even the strongest must sometimes fall from grace," I leaned forwards, brushing bloody fingertips past his cheek, his hair. His reflexes, keener than I had assumed, allowed him time enough to grab my wrist before I withdrew. 

"You're hurt." He said bluntly, turning my hand over, eyeing the bloodied palm. "Where were you that you got hurt?"

"One of the distant worlds, out there," I gestured vaguely with my free arm, and his grip tightened.

"How?"

"I had an unfortunate encounter with a three-headed dog." 

"Hn." He jerked me closer, inspecting me, playing doctor. This personality reversal didn't much surprise me, as he had taken me as being the sort that was used to inspecting injuries, scoffing over them, and showing off some greater scar. I wonder if the hurt he feels over this betrayal of his…his _friend…_for I dare not say lover, could even rival my own?

"And you survived?" He said incredulously, releasing my arm from where he now held it at the elbow, looking upwards. 

"Courtesy of…someone, yes."

He, surely, was no fool. He knew that my less-than-casual usage of 'someone' truly meant 'Someone that I just won't name'. He cocked his head, locked in some inner debate, the topic of which was likely on whether or not to pester me further. 

"C'mon," he said, finally, "there's gotta be something in this damned castle that can be called 'medical' supplies."

"No." I said, surprising myself for the second time now with such unrestrained comments. "I'm not here for help. I'm here for…" my lips twisted upwards in a veritable grimace. "Vengeance."

"Eh?" Riku's eyes returned to me, narrowing as they did so. "Really." 

"Yes."

"Fine, then. Since I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark here and assume it's a personal vendetta, I'm not about to stop you." He released me with a slight push, and I stumbled wearily. "Don't forget that I offered, and don't ask for my help again." He waved his hand, and a swirling vortex of miasmic materialized behind him. He folded himself into it, and I watched in enraptured fascination as the tendrils of darkness closed about him. 

"Wait!" 

He paused, and re-emerged out of the shadows, long enough to cast me a withering glare. "Well?" He asked impatiently, tapping his forefinger against his temple in exasperation. "What do you want?"

"The darkness…" I mumbled, pointing behind him. "How can you expect to—"

"Win?" He finished, voice bitter. "How can I expect to win with the darkness? Easy. Darkness extinguishes light." And this time, when he faded, not even my futile grasping of his shoulder prevented his leaving. 

I felt him cave, then. I felt him surrender. It wasn't really a matter of any esoteric connection that we shared, for we shared nothing except pain, but there was _something _about him that informed me that he was no longer the young boy who had given his heart to another, only to have it violently torn from his chest. And now, now that the angel of darkness was standing above his lifeless body, holding that same pulsating heart in its bloodied claws, now there was no hope for the child Riku. 

I could not help but wonder if there was any for the little hero, Sora. For when light and darkness manifest as one, the end result is rarely the balance that it is so preached to be. The two mediums cannot exist within one-another, nor can the tides fluctuate with any degree of normalcy until one is destroyed. 

_Which_ one is a question better left unanswered. 

The desire to seek revenge for the injustices dealt to me faded as spontaneously as it had come, a whirlwind now spent. The aches and pains of my protesting body caught up with me, and tentatively, so tentatively, I rescued the oboe from where it was filed neatly beside my body, marveling at the fact that it had escaped my ordeal unscathed. There was blood on it now, though, tiny flecks of brilliant vermilion, a shade too surreal to seem natural. I held it a moment longer, and then lifted it once more to my lips. 

This time the notes were not sour. 


End file.
